


Enough

by Maiden_of_the_Moon



Category: Bartimaeus - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: M/M, Romance, repost from ff.net
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-08
Updated: 2007-06-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:31:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21726682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon
Summary: The fact that he had a question wasn't surprising... when didn't Ptolemy have a question? No, it was the question itself that shocked Bartimaeus to his essence filled core: "Rekhyt, do djinn feel love?"
Relationships: Bartimaeus/Ptolemy (Bartimaeus)
Kudos: 5





	Enough

**Author's Note:**

> At the request of tumblr's what-did-xerxes-say, I'm sharing my old FF.net Bart fics on ao3. This one was originally posted on 6/8/2007.

**Disclaimer:** Nada.  
****

**XXX  
Enough  
XXX**

The furious scribbling of a brush on papyrus came to a sudden halt. It wasn't a frustrated sort of stop—since Ptolemy hadn't begun grumbling to himself—, nor was it a rest of completion—there had been no smile or chirp of joy. Well then, there was only one other explanation for it:

"Rekhyt?"

… he had a question. What a surprise.

"Mmmm...?" Half-asleep in a sun-warmed patch of blanket, a desert cat stirred; a single bright green eye flicked wearily open, gave the magician beside him a once over, then closed again. Its head nuzzled closer, warmed by the heat radiating from the boy's crossed legs. "Wassit?"

It was an ineloquent response—not up to Bartimaeus's usual standard of loquacious wit—, but it got the job done. Ptolemy, thus assured of the djinni's attention, grinned and pet the cat behind its pricked ears. For a moment, he could have sworn he heard the tiny animal give a muted little purr… but knew Bartimaeus would deny it if he asked.

The smile grew as his hands skimmed down the fur of the feline's smooth back. The form visibly amused him. "Rekhyt, I've been going over what you've told me of the Other Place," Ptolemy announced—unnecessarily, it might have been said—, "but still I have questions."

An almost pig-like grunt came from the cat. "I would have been worried if you hadn't." A sigh; in the blink of an eye, the kitten had grown, melted, and molded itself into a doppelganger of the magician on the bed. The choice of body didn't surprise Ptolemy as much as it probably should have; he'd been seeing himself more and more since the night of the assassins' assault. When asked, the djinni simply said it was an easy form to maintain… and this way, if anyone tried to attack them during daylight hours, they wouldn't know which boy to kill first. _A moment of hesitation we could use to our advantage,_ had been the spirit's exact words.

Ptolemy didn't believe him for a second. Bartimaeus knew that. Regardless, they'd let the subject drop.

Of course, that was neither here nor there.

Within seconds, a second Ptolemy was lounging lethargically beside the first on the sheeted bed, still carefully in his sunbeam. He yawned, rolled his shoulders, and pawed the sleepiness from his eyes. "All right, O master of mine," Bartimaeus then drawled, stretching languidly in place. Another sigh, more contented; his eyes remained lazily half-lidded. "Shoot."

"Well," the magician paused, tapping a finger to his lips as he mentally composed his question. His djinni utilized the moment for equally productive means: idly braiding his hair. "You told me, last we talked, about the unity of the Other Place."

"So I did."

"You spoke of how you are all one there; how you share a being."

"How true."

"You also mentioned that it is your name that distinguishes who you are on Earth—that hundreds of different pieces of the great self you become when in the Other Place are ripped away to form each spirits' individual essence."

"As touched as I am that you remembered all that," the copycat droned—not rudely, but not entirely patient, either—, "and as impressive as I find your memorization skills, I hope there's a point forthcoming…?"

Ptolemy nodded solemnly. "It's just that… I am mildly confused on a few related points. You say, for example, that you are all one in the Other Place—"

"We have established that many times over," Bartimaeus interrupted, sounding tired. In a vague sort of way, he glanced down, came to the realization that he'd run out of hair, and in an instant had grown more. The plait was inching steadily towards his waist, now. "Yes. In the Other Place, we are one in the same."

"— but if that is so," the boy continued pointedly, blatantly disregarding the djinni's interruption, "where do other djinn come from?"

The braiding stopped. In fact, every centimeter of the djinni stilled. Lips pursed, eyes wide, Bartimaeus stared blankly at his young master, who was gazing back with an earnest interest in his eyes. However, that "earnestness" was quickly becoming "awkwardness" the longer he stared at… well, himself. "_What?_" the magician snapped, irritated in his ignorance. "What's that look for…?"

But the djinni didn't seem to be listening anymore. A pause; a hum; a hand leapt to his mouth, as if—with a gasp—he'd suddenly come to understand some hidden secret.

"Ooooo…" he cooed, almost sympathetically.

"'Ooo'?" Ptolemy frowned. "What does 'ooo' mean?"

"It… it's just…" Without finishing, Bartimaeus shook his head and purposefully cleared his throat. "It's just that I thought you knew—don't they teach you kids _anything_ these days?"

The boy's frown further distorted his face, morphing it into a scrunch of bewilderment. "What're you—?"

"No, no," the djinni cut him off with a small wave of his hand, palm up and face away. "It's fine. I'm surprised, but you've got to learn sometime. Really, this should be a father's job, but… All right, when a ma—no, wait, don't look at me like that, I'll go along with it. Sorry. Okay, when a "djinni" and an... oh, we'll say an "afrit" love each other very much, they might decide to have—"

By this point, Ptolemy's tanned face had turned shockingly red, much like the summer sunset. Clamping small hands over his ears, he yelped and rapidly began shaking his head. "No! Rekhyt! That's not what I meant at all!"

"Huh?" Cocking an eyebrow, Bartimaeus cast his master a suspicious glance. A prying glance. Then he leaned forward, visibly dubious, and gazed down at the boy with piercing, soul-searching eyes. "No…?" he pressed. "Because if you're just too shy to ask, it's—"

"Rekhyt, I know all about… _that_…" Ptolemy muttered, cheeks still on fire, as he eyed the fingers he'd clenched in his lap. "I'm _13_. No, I'm really talking about djinn. And afrits, too, I suppose. And marids, and foliots, and imps, and everything from the Other Place."

The boy looked up hopefully; Bartimaues merely looked puzzled. "… you'll have to be more specific," the djinni finally said with a shrug, not following. "I don't understand what you're getting at."

It was Ptolemy's turn to sigh—though from excited exasperation, not apathy. "Where do the spirits come from?" he repeated, more expectantly this time. Also, it should be mentioned, more enthusiastically. "How do they reproduce? Do you just appear? Are the same pieces simply rearranged when a new name crops up? Is it that, as a mass, you're asexual? Hermaphroditic? If so, what defines your gender when you appear on Earth? I mean, more than once I've heard you refer to yourself as male, and I know there are djinn who refer to themselves as female. Do you… mate… as humans do, or are the gender distinctions only to help us humans distinguish who you are? If that's the case, why do you sometimes take the shape of a woman? Or are there gender differences because you have… preferences? Or do we force a gender on you when we name you? Or— Rekhyt?"

Tilting his head, the magician stared up at his look-alike with narrowed, concern-filled eyes… it was the djinni's turn, apparently, to look flustered. "Rekhyt?" Ptolemy said once more, worried. "Are you all right?"

A loud hacking filled the room. "…'course I'm all right. Yeah. That was, um…" A second, more delicate cough. "…just a little unexpected. Okay… spirit reproduction? That's..."

Much like the real Ptolemy, the fake Ptolemy scrunched his face, scratching his chin with a pensive air. "Kind of hard to describe. Since we're all one in the Other Place, any new spirit would be the child of every other spirit—not to mention the mother, father, brother, sister, aunt, first cousin three times removed… the whole deal. How the essence is arranged is the key, and there are an infinite number of arrangements to try."

"So is it the names, then, that create a new spirit?"

"No," Bartimaeus shook his head, albeit uncertainly, trying to find an easy way to explain the unexplainable. "The spirit must already exist, or else how could it react to its name? No… we're all there, always changing and forming and dividing. Names have nothing to do with it, nor do genders."

Ptolemy considered this with a furrowed brow. "I understand…" Doubtful. But it didn't really matter one way or the other. "So what are the gender differences for, then?"

"Comprehension." The answer came easily, almost lazily. It was interesting to note that the embarrassment that had been plaguing Ptolemy's supernatural friend at the beginning of the conversation had all but vanished. Was Bartimaeus growing more comfortable with the subject matter, the boy wondered, or was he just glad to have avoided a certain question?

"It's easier for humans to understand things that are like themselves. The genders are attached to the names, which attaches to our essence and shapes who we are."

"Are you saying, then," Ptolemy pressed without time for pause, "that you act more human on Earth so as not to over stimulate a magician's mind?"

"…interesting way of putting it."

"Let me rephrase," the child drawled, rolling his eyes. "On Earth, you mimic people both to keep the magicians from going crazy upon seeing you, and to keep yourselves from going crazy in your new, physical bodies. You use it as a way to acclimatize to your surroundings… just as a cat might act like a lion if trapped with it."

"Though we djinn would be the lion, not the cat."

"Of course." Bartimaeus pretended not to hear his master's patronizing tone. "But it is, in any case, irrelevant. The point, my dear Rekhyt, is that you're now claiming you act human _intentionally_. Does that mean nothing about you is human naturally?"

"Certainly not!" the djinni gasped, clearly offended. A hand clutched at his heart; he drew himself up to the most impressive height he could while still in the safe boarders of his sunbeam. "Ptolemy, you wound me with your easy words!"

"Then what was that?" Ptolemy pressed enthusiastically, leaning forward on his knees and making the bed sag a bit. "That emotion right there—indignation. The way you've put it in the past, in the Other Place you merely float around in cheerful oblivion. Does that make your previous indignation fake; does that mean you're only acting this way because you have to? Is it a real emotion while you're here, or is it a real emotion in both realms? For centuries people have claimed that emotions like love and actions like laughing are what distinguish humans from other entities. Do you do things like laugh and love when in the Other Place, or is there just emptiness?"

"I…" Again, the pretend boy seemed at a loss for words. This time, however, it was not from surprise. Rather, it was from confusion—as if he wasn't sure himself. "Well, yes, we laugh and feel happiness and anger and all while in the Other Place, but… but it's not like we're—"

"Human? How would you know? Have you every— _truly_—" he added sternly when Bartimaeus made to gesture down at his borrowed body— "been one? Hmmm? Is that a no? I thought not."

Triumphant, Ptolemy leaned back on his haunches, beaming. "I think we're all much more alike than we'd like think, Rekhyt."

A pause.

Bartimaeus considered the child, watching him from the corner of his eye— which glittered like ebony in the sunlight. "…you're certainly an odd one, master," he then mumbled, more to himself than to Ptolemy. "Asking about things like laughter and love. Now, a _healthy_ boy your age would be asking me about things like—"

"Rekhyt?"

It was pointless to resist. "Yes, Ptolemy?" Bartimaeus asked flatly, eyes on the ceiling.

"Have _you_ ever loved?"

That was it. The question the djinni had thought he'd avoided; the inquisition that had him coughing into a fist with a faint flush on his cheeks. True, the expression was gone without milliseconds, but it was enough to reassure Ptolemy.

"Me?" Bartimaeus—post restored demeanor, of course— sniffed, sneering. "Please. Who do I have to love? My fellow spirits, with whom I am one moment coexisting, the other killing? My masters, who enslave me against my will and force their dirty work upon me? No. No, I haven't. It is easier not to bother with such things. And to be truthful, I don't think I am even _able_ to love."

A beat. Outside, a flock of seagulls screeched. A baby cried. A horse whinnied.

Ptolemy considered this rather melodramatic confession, mimicking the djinni's position: back against the wall, knees bent, elbows draped across them. It was wonderfully comfortable. "I see… That's rather sad, Rekhyt."

Bartimaeus gave a haughty little snort. "_Sad_ is another human emotion."

"That you have already claimed to experience."

"…maybe." Touché.

"Well, if you're already experiencing human emotions _anyway_, maybe you should try love?" Ptolemy suggested, bumping his shoulder into his doppelganger's in a playful kind of way. "Who knows? Perhaps you might like it."

The djinni shot him a dry glance, a single eyebrow arched. "Oh?" he droned, rapping his fingers to a steady rhythm against his lower leg. His voice was thick with condescendence and boredom. "And who do you suggest I try loving?"

Of all the questions that had been voiced thus far, this had been the only rhetorical one. But to Bartimaeus's shock, his master had an immediate answer:

"How about me?"

The suggestion was casual—almost unnervingly so. But it was more than enough to give the djinni pause. Startled, Bartimaeus whirled his head around to gape at the boy, who was staring indifferently out into the distance.

For a full minute, there was silence. Which in and of it was rather strange, as Bartimaeus wasn't used to silence when with Ptolemy. Ptolemy was, after all, always writing or reading or asking questions, all of which made at least a little noise. That being the case, the sudden hush was unsettling… almost as much as the conversation itself.

Slowly, harshly, as if forcing down cotton, the djinni swallowed. "…you?" he all but squeaked, clearly searching for confirmation. The hesitant word was nearly drowned out by the rush of sound beyond the window: birds squawking, peasants chatting, the chaos of the morning market.

Flustered, Bartimaeus cleared his throat and tried again. "_You?_"

A small smile.

"Why not?" In an attempt at nonchalance, Ptolemy flicked a piece of lint from his tunic and flashed his friend a brief grin. "Love is one of those things you like to have reciprocated, after all."

The air rushed from the djinni's human lungs. "…are you trying to tell me something?" he asked feebly, squirming in place. It had obviously been an attempt at a joke, but as the magician leaned forward—closer, closer, moving ever so cautiously, like the cat Bartimaeus had been all but minutes ago—the urge to tease died away.

Ptolemy flicked his tongue over dry lips, biting lightly down on the bottom half.

"Yes. I am."

The solemn, husky whisper echoed; the bed creaked. After a myriad of careful, meaningful movements, Bartimaeus was trapped between the wall and his master's arms, his face a single inch from the boy's.

Neither moved. For a long moment, they simply stared at one another: Ptolemy, into his own black eyes— darker than usual from the shadow of his looming presence; Bartimaeus, into the glowing face of the boy, whose head was haloed by the sunbeam.

"Do…" Ptolemy's voice cracked, breathy with nerves. "Do djinn… ever do things like this?"

Cautiously—with crisp, jerky motions—the double shook his head. "Not usually," he mumbled. His knees curled to his chest as if in protection; his hands fisted in the sheets. "…maybe once in a while. Never with a human."

"Oh…" The answer wasn't a surprise, but that didn't keep the pain from the child's dark gaze. Regardless, Ptolemy offered a rueful smile—and, as if in afterthought, ran a finger carefully up the djinni's thin arm, across his collar bone. Both shivered, as though the ray of sunlight had turned to ice. "Well then… Would you mind being the first, Rekhyt?"

More of that infernal silence. But really, what was there to say? How could one respond to… to…

The question was hesitant, gentle—not without a note of pleading desperation, but not, in any way, a demand. Ptolemy's well-defined features were lined with embarrassment, with self-doubt. The finger slowed beneath Bartimaeus's rounded chin, tilting it the smallest of fractions.

The djinni was instantly engulfed in the full force of the beautiful black eyes, unable to breathe, think, or speak. In fact, all the poor spirit could bring himself to do was gape up at Ptolemy with wide, tentative eyes of his own. His fingers tightened… but soon, his legs relaxed. Bartimaeus of Urk, still looking pathetically befuddled, had made his decision:

"…all right."

It was more of a peep than anything else, but it had been the answer Ptolemy was looking for. His half-smile widened; his already gentle eyes seemed softer than ever, like a cloud of the purest silk. It somehow made the djinni feel safe, as if he were back home.

He found he liked the feeling.

The space between them lessened; each breath mingled, shallow and sweet, casting warmth upon the other's neck and cheeks. Ginger hands feathered the length of the puppet's jaw line; Ptolemy watched every subtle change on the spirit's malleable face. There was interest in his gaze, that unquenchable curiosity… and something else that Bartimaeus recognized but did not want to name.

The startled spirit squeezed his eyes tightly shut—and in the darkness of his mind, admitted to his lie.

Because it _had_ been a lie, of course. The djinni knew—as did Ptolemy, he was sure—that he was perfectly capable of feeling love. Just as he was perfectly capable of feeling happiness, anger, sadness, and (though he'd never personally experienced it, being the supreme being that he was) fear. It was merely that he'd had no prior practice with the emotion "love"… nor had he any prior desire _to_ practice it.

Yet as Ptolemy's lips brushed against his own; as his tentative arms lifted, fell, tangled around his master's shoulders; as the distracted pair toppled backwards to become a sprawling heap, Bartimaeus knew that was all about to change.

And he was prepared to accept that.

No, not even… not even "accept"… to his own great surprise, the djinni found—_again_— that he _liked_ the feelings growing within him. How _strange_… Stranger even than the realization that he didn't really care: not about the other spirits, not about the unspoken laws, not about returning to the Other Place. Not so long as the boy's soft lips were skimming down his throat, his hands dancing up his sides, his hips cradling the guise's…

Perhaps Ptolemy was on to something with the whole spirit/human theory. Perhaps the two races _were_ more alike than any commoner, slave, or magician had dared to dream. Or perhaps not. Perhaps it was all a fluke, or a trick, or a dream. Perhaps this was a lie.

But such ponderings were for a later time— a time when his heart wasn't dancing, a time when his flesh wasn't singing, a time when his master wasn't casting spells with his touch alone. A time that wasn't now. Because for now, this was enough confirmation for the both of them.

This single, shared feeling was more than enough.

**XXX**


End file.
